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Love is not to be known, just felt


Image: 1937, Lionel Wendt


Some days I find love is allowing the weight of another to rest on my body pressing; making skin feel softer than it really is, the air ebb sweeter than it really is.


Other days I think love is conquering; like the urge to push my iron will against the world until one of us bleeds; until all that is left is me.


I find love comes visiting when resting my head down on a wide lap of a tree and waiting to see if my breath will catch sync with the slow hum of a bee.


Some days I find love is poetry—calculated, cunning, tyrannical, open, loud, unstoppable, feeling put on a pedestal.


Somedays I think love is the flow of water; just a universal and logical pull to the lowlands, escaping hungry roots and mouths, restless to melt in the ocean.


Other days I find love is patience; like the Earth, heavy and weary of her children; in their incessant wanting and asking, in their infant tantrums.


Some days I hear love as silence; in quiet exchange with the universe; an unspoken acknowledgement that this is how we love one another.



 

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.



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